(Two or three more clerks pass, talking till they approach the seat,
then becoming silent after bidding good night.)
ANABEL. But aren't you a bit sorry for them?
GERALD. Why? If they're poor, what does it matter in a world of chaos?
ANABEL. And aren't you an obstinate ass not to give them the bit they want. It's mere stupid obstinacy.
GERALD. It may be. I call it policy.
ANABEL. Men always do call their obstinacy policy.
GERALD. Well, I don't care what happens. I wish things would come to a head. I only fear they won't.
ANABEL. Aren't you rather wicked?—ASKING for strife?
GERALD. I hope I am. It's quite a relief to me to feel that I may be wicked. I fear I'm not. I can see them all anticipating victory, in their low-down fashion wanting to crow their low-down crowings. I'm afraid I feel it's a righteous cause, to cut a lot of little combs before I die.
ANABEL. But if they're right in what they want?